Rumor Has It (Jock Star Book 1)

by Caterina Campbell

  I strip off my cropped sweats and panties, hopping on one leg like a jackhammer because my heel is stuck and I’m in too much of a hurry to find another way. Finally free, I kick them beneath the table and start peeling off the rest of my clothing, which I accomplish with the approximate gracefulness of an ungainly rhino.

  Finally naked, I frantically position myself backward on one of the kitchen chairs, straddling the seat. I look over the top rung and place my arms across it. Thankfully, I already have makeup and hair done for this little sex surprise that is now as much of a surprise for me as it’s going to be for him. I feel sexy, except that I’m out of breath from hopping on one foot, and my girl is sore from last night’s combination celebration and makeup sex.

  Vance drops his gym bag onto the floor as his eyes land on me, and the only noise I hear is the hissing of his breath as he draws it in. I smile, feeling the slightest bit of red creep up my neck and into my cheeks.

  “Damn, Brenna.” He doesn’t know whether to come and get me or stare at me. His movements are staggered—inch forward, stop, stare, inch forward, stop, stare. It’s the dance of a man at war with his needs.

  When he gets to me, he tucks a finger beneath my chin and lifts upward so I look up at him. He leans down, kisses me hard and growls into my mouth. I am wrecked heat when he slides a finger up my sex and hisses. “Is this for me?” he whispers, feeling the evidence of my arousal.

  I flush to my eyelashes.

  “We have an hour, Brenna. With you like this, I can’t promise gentle. You sure you’re ready for that kind of intensity?” Vance’s voice is deep and tinged with a lusty rasp, but despite all the pleasure that tone promises, I hear nothing but the screeching sound of everything coming to an abrupt halt in my brain.

  “Wait! What? Why do we only have an hour?” I try to stand, but he puts a heavy hand on my shoulder bending down to kiss my neck.

  “We’re supposed to be at Coi’s at eight. The team party? I texted you.” He licks my earlobe, temporarily shifting my focus back to my throbbing girl parts. Eyes closed, I let myself fall back into the moment, pushing my disappointment aside.

  Reading me, and knowing what we both need, he asks, “Wanna show up late?”

  Lip pinned between my teeth, I nod.

  Vance, dressed in a black suit, stops outside of the restaurant to speak to the press gathered at the entrance. With his hand protectively tight around mine, he’s courteous but brief in his answer when they ask him if he’s leaving the Renegades after the postseason.

  “We’ve still got one more team to beat. That’s my focus,” he says politely.

  One of the reporters, a bald guy wearing wire-rimmed glasses and a smile that at first seems genuine but comes with reservations, raises a hand, and Vance leads us toward him. Vance stops, leans in, and takes his quiet question. “How do you feel about your performance tonight? You had a great run until Stanger got that hit off of you.”

  I feel his hand twitch around mine, but it’s the only sign that he’s uncomfortable. “I think we had a great game,” he replies. “We’re headed to Texas, aren’t we?” He grins, taps the reporter on the side of the shoulder and moves us along, avoiding any further questions as the doors to the restaurant open for us.

  Inside, the restaurant teems with laughter and loud conversations that carry over the soft instrumental music playing through the sound system. I recognize Halsey standing at the bar, hand wrapped around a half-empty glass. He smiles and waves, heading toward us.

  They do some sort of handshake that seems ridiculous for two guys who probably showered together today. He turns his attention to me, hugging me in a way only Halsey can. “You look beautiful,” he says, taking an open look at me. “I like the red.”

  I take the compliment and shake off a blush, especially since I had fifteen minutes to figure out what to wear and touch up my post-sex hair and makeup. “You look pretty sharp too.”

  He lifts a shoulder, flashes a dimple, and waves at someone beyond me. “I think there’s someone here to see you.”

  I turn my head in the direction he waved, and after looking between bodies, I spot the one person missing from this perfect day.

  Bristol, cheeks glistening in pink neon tears, stands within the glow of a dangling lamp emitting pink light in a blue-hued room. She is stunning, and would be even if we were on speaking terms. We haven’t spoken any more than necessary since I chose to believe Vance, so seeing her now, looking happy to see me, makes my hands tremble. Wearing a body-hugging dress that absorbs the pink tint of the lamp, she makes her way toward me.

  I can’t wait for her to reach me, and despite the height of my heels, I run toward her. We hug in the middle of a crowd that moved for our embrace, and I cry into her neck as she cries into mine. She smells like flowers and feels like home as my heart finds its missing beat.

  “I love you,” she whispers into my ear. “I will always love you.”

  I nod against her face, smile-crying, happier than I’ve been since San Francisco over a week ago. “I love you too. Thank you for coming.”

  She pulls away, still close and hands still on me. “It was douche canoe. He did it. Otherwise, I’d still be at home wearing jammies and eating peanut butter with my finger.”

  I look over my shoulder at Vance standing beside Halsey, who beams and toasts me in the air with a glass of ice. Vance looks solemn but appeased, and I mouth the words, “Thank you.” Certainly not enough gratitude for the gift he’s given me on what is really his night, but suitable for the mixed company. He offers one simple nod and a brief grin before turning toward the bar.

  “I can’t believe you’re here,” I say, turning back to Bristol.

  “Sorry I couldn’t make it for the game last night. I wanted to, but I had to work. Damn. Who knew they’d win it? Oh, and I’m still pissed off at you,” she says, loud enough to be overheard.

  “I don’t care,” I say, grabbing hold of her face to look her in the eyes. “Be mad. Just love me. That’s all I ask.”

  She hugs me to her, squeezing tight, and for Bristol, that’s the equivalent of a full-mouth kiss. “We’ll talk later. We’re here to celebrate, not hash things out. I guess even cheaters can be thoughtful.”

  I groan, choosing for the sake of our reunion and Vance’s night to accept her temporary truce. She touches her head to mine and puts her arm around me, steering us both toward the bar where Vance and Halsey have been joined by Corky.

  As I head toward Vance, Bristol aims right for Halsey, the king of flirtation himself, and a reserved Corky who has yet to determine whether Bristol is crazy or just over-protective.

  Spotting me, Vance reaches a hand out and draws me in when I take it, kissing my forehead.

  I look up, eyelashes struggling to maintain the well of tears behind them. “I can’t believe you did this.”

  A small smile forms, sad mostly, but progressing. “We may not see eye to eye on your sister, but she’s still your sister. I won’t ever be the reason you don’t see her.” He tilts my chin up with the back of his finger. “No tears.”

  “I love you.” I smile and turn to the conversation between Halsey, Corky, and Bristol.

  Seeing that she has my attention again, Bristol announces, “Uncle Rodney sent me with money for a celebratory round of shots. But he said it had to be Jameson, or he wouldn’t buy.”

  Halsey claps a hand on the bar. “Irish whiskey it is.”

  With Corky, Halsey, and Vance flanking Bristol and me, and Uncle Rodney on video smiling from my phone, we toast to the championship win, Uncle Rodney, and beautiful women, before taking our shots of Jameson. Bristol and I are used to Jameson—I’m pretty sure it’s still what’s in the bottle behind the bookcase in the storage room—so it’s an easy shot to kill for me, Bristol, and Halsey, who takes the shot like it’s water, but Corky and Vance are not as well-primed. They take a chaser as we all say goodbye and thank you to Uncle Rodney.

  Normally, Bristol would be all over that, tea
sing her way into another shot and a flirtatious battle, and Vance would fall for it, buying another round to prove he can handle the shot as well as we can—but before he has a chance, Bristol signals the bartender for two more. She hands him a twenty and pushes one of the shots toward Vance. I stare, completely out of my comfort zone but inclined to let it play out since I have no clue where it’s heading. Only after Bristol signals with a head nod does Vance pick up his shot, looking just as uncertain as me. “To winning,” she toasts, eyes intent on his.

  “Why do I get the feeling that means something different to you than it does to me?” he asks.

  Bristol shrugs and just keeps smiling.

  After returning her look for a few seconds, he touches his glass to hers. “To winning.”

  That they both love me enough to put their differences aside, if only for one night, means the world, even if the underlying tone is unmistakably adversarial. Somehow, though, as happy as I am right now, the rift has never felt more prominent.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  JOCK THE GIANT SLAYER. I read the headline as Vance drops the November issue of Jock magazine right next to my half-empty bowl of sugar and Wheaties.

  Vance, on a backdrop of Renegade red, is front and center on the cover dressed in his uniform and holding a baseball in his right hand.

  Lena nailed it.

  I fly into his arms, the barstool wobbling beneath me. “Oh my God,” I shriek. “You got the cover!”

  “It’s not a big deal.”

  I sneer at his dismissal and hop back up on the stool to finish looking at the magazine. It’s only been two days since the Renegades beat the Houston Astros in game seven of the World Series, but it’s been close to a month since they beat the Giants.

  “How long have you had this?” I ask.

  Vance, standing beside me leaning over the counter, flips impatiently to the back third of the magazine where, in several of the photographs, I am featured with him. “It just came out.”

  Too shocked to do much else, I stare at one picture in particular until he snaps me out of it.

  “Gorgeous, huh?” he says softly, before kissing the tip of my nose.

  I recall it like it was yesterday, including the hissy fit he threw when Lena asked me to take off my shirt and bra. I thought he was going to come unglued and tear the place apart. But Lena merely stuck her pointer finger in the air to quiet him and uttered a simple four words: “My vision, your veto.” And with that, this picture was born.

  The picture is intimate with both of us topless, but it’s also playful, and I stare at it, completely in awe. We’re chest to chest, me facing away from the camera with my cheek against his pec. I’m palming a baseball behind my back while my other hand is looped around his neck. His hand is on my hip below the waist of my jeans, and he’s looking at the camera with a serious face that can only be described as breathtaking. He looks vulnerable and achingly handsome. My heart melts.

  Looking at myself as anything other than Bristol’s twin sister is still foreign, but I’m starting to see myself in my own ray of light instead of in the shadow of hers. On that emotional thought, I switch my gaze to Vance to see if I can gather what his thoughts are based on his expression. The pictures they selected for the article allow us to keep our privacy while allowing Vance’s fans into his private world. It couldn’t be more perfect. I respect Lena even more than I already did.

  “Okay, that’s enough.” Vance tries to close the magazine, and I slap his hand away.

  “I want to read it.”

  “It’s boring shit,” he says, and swipes the magazine from me.

  “What are you hiding?” I’m suddenly worried about the content.

  “Nothing. I don’t want to make a big deal out of it. I just wanted you to see the pictures of us.”

  “And I love them. I’m having them framed.”

  He grins. “Working on it. Should have them back Tuesday.”

  “Are you for real right now?” My elated squeal draws a wince from him and his sensitive ears.

  He snakes an arm around me and draws me in, growling into my ear. “I wanted to get laid.”

  “As if that’s ever been a problem for you.” I slip out of his grasp to reach around him for the magazine he thinks he’s distracted me from.

  He stops me with a sidestep, expression contemplative, immersed in something private that reflects in his eyes but hasn’t yet escaped his mouth.

  Vance seldom, if ever, talks about his feelings or shares what’s bugging him. I usually have to dig, and unless I’m persuasively naked, he doesn’t budge. I know better than to quiz him now, but damn it if I don’t want to.

  I press my body against him and his arm winds around me, his hand grabbing my ass affectionately. I touch his cheek like I’m touching a delicate painting. “I’m going to read that article here or at a viewing party with Bristol. It’s up to you.”

  He hangs his head. “Can we drop it for now?”

  “What? Did you share intimate details about me? Is the world going to know I sound like a dolphin when I have an orgasm?”

  He chuckles. “You don’t sound like a dolphin.”

  “That’s not really an answer.”

  “No. I didn’t kiss and tell.”

  “Did you break up with me?”

  This draws an irritated look from him that matches the exhale of air and he tries to pull away from me, but I’m persistent with a grip on his waistband. I look up at him, my eyes expressive enough that words aren’t necessary.

  “I didn’t break up with you.” He uses his hands to push me away, and I stand there feeling a bit dejected. I watch curiously as he heads toward the staircase that leads to his bedroom, but he stops short and picks up the magazine. Making no real show, he hands it to me, jaw clenched. “Here.” He waits until I take it fully then walks away. “I was a bit more open than I normally am, and I don’t really care for the outcome.” Halfway up the staircase, he utters, “Cancel the viewing party.”

  When I get upstairs after reading the article, he is fresh out of the shower and standing in front of the mirror, body on full display as he reaches for his toothbrush. After all this time, I’m still mesmerized by his body and its capabilities. I think when God created man, this is the image he had in mind. Not the bloated, too-indulgent, human form most of us have.

  In the mirror, he catches me staring at him. Instead of offering an excuse, I slip behind him and wrap him up in my arms, my cheek against his damp back, my hands splayed across his pecs. He lowers his head and covers one of my hands with his. Muscles, without prompting, swell and stretch, elongating into beautiful strands of perfection as he reaches and puts an arm around me.

  Beneath my touch, he’s hard muscle and erratic heartbeat. I can feel his irritation escape as I press my lips to his bare back, sneaking in a kiss before I speak. “I liked it. I don’t know what you’re so upset about.”

  He turns slowly in my embrace and wraps my hair up in his fingers, tilting my head back with a slight tug. “I’m a ‘no comment’ kind of guy, but because of the pictures in the magazine and our very public outings, I can’t clam up and not answer questions about you. I invited their curiosity, but I also want to protect your privacy,” he says, lowering his mouth to my neck. He places a kiss on my throat, and the heat of it blossoms all over me. If he wanted my attention, he’s got it. Pulling his mouth away, he adds, “I don’t want to make you feel slighted by something I’ve said to shut them up. And I don’t want them to have all the answers because I don’t want to slight you. I’m not very good at walking that fine line just yet.”

  I nod, entranced by both his eyes and his heart. “I love you,” I whisper, pressing my body into his. “I know none of this is easy for you.”

  He wraps his arms around me, smothering me against his chest where the fresh scent of his body wash clings. “I love you too, and I’ll get better with this, I promise.”

  My phone, sitting in my bag in Vance’s bedroom, sings B
ristol’s ringtone, and as with any sign of Bristol, Vance tenses. He drops his arms and grips the counter behind him. I remain clinging, reluctant to part with his tenderness for fear that Bristol will once again hijack his mood.

  “Get it,” he says, pushing off the counter. “She won’t stop until you do.”

  The ringtone dies before I can get to it but bursts back to life within a few seconds as Vance predicted. “Hello?”

  “I’m here,” she says without an ounce of warmth.

  “You can come in. I’ve got to finish getting dressed and grab my stuff.”

  “I’ll wait out here,” she says, deadpan.

  I toss my phone in the bag after she hangs up. I hustle through my tasks, sniff Vance’s T-shirt—because who knows how long it will be before I see him again—and grab the last of my things from his room. He’s waiting downstairs for me when I emerge with my bag in hand, my hair still tousled, and without a stitch of makeup on.

  He should be more relaxed than ever now that his season is behind him and only mandatory press and obligatory celebrations are ahead of him, but instead he looks like his asshole is burning. I drop my bag at my feet and step toward him without it.